


The Mezzo and the Mountain

by LaughingMezzo



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom HIddleston - OFC, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Angst, Awkard!Tom, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Opera festival, Past Relationships, Sexual Tension, picnic basket, reluctance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingMezzo/pseuds/LaughingMezzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is smitten by an opera singer. She finds him...problematic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Told from both Gwen and Tom’s POV, sometimes in whole chapters, sometimes not. Usually they take turns, but occasionally one has something they really need to say, and they’re both far too polite—and love each other too much—to interrupt.
> 
> All the usuas apply: no ownership of Tom, don't know him, etc., etc.

**Tom**

I’ll have to admit, I’d never been a huge fan of opera.

For Mum, though, it was a lifelong passion, and since I had a considerable stretch of relative downtime in front of me (coming off two years of near-constant work), I couldn’t bring myself to say no when she asked if I would take a day trip with her to Buckinghamshire, home of the brand-new Aylesbury Opera Festival.

Although her career as a stage manager was behind her, she’d agreed to do some volunteer work for them, part of which was publicity—and how better to get the word out than pics of your famous son meeting and greeting the cast and crew of the first production, _La Clemenza di Tito_? The pics would be tweeted and retweeted, blogged and reblogged, and Aylesbury—and its opera festival—would be on the map.

Mum, by the way, is shameless.

The day was uncharacteristically clear for April, and after a short drive from Oxford, we pulled into Hughenden Manor, which had been (temporarily) converted into a veritable theatre—wardrobe, makeup, and props were housed in the manor, and we could see crews constructing pieces for the set outside. While the actual performances would be held on a tented outdoor stage (not to be built, according to Mum, until closer to the festival’s opening), rehearsals were held in some of the larger rooms where rudimentary blocking could be worked out.

The first part of the morning passed pleasantly enough; I suspected Mum had warned everyone to look their best—everyone, including the stage hands, appeared crisper and more well-combed than the job usually allows for. Guided by Mum, I shook hands and smiled and snapped selfies until my thumbs ached, all the while distantly aware of the sound of singing off in another part of the house.

I didn’t think much about it at the time—it was a rehearsal space for an opera festival, after all, and it would have been unusual if the voice singing _hadn’t_ been exquisitely beautiful. So I smiled and posed, flirting cheekily with a perky brunette from marketing or wardrobe or…well, I wasn’t quite sure, but she was cute, so I didn’t mind spending a few extra moments with her.

Mum, however, was on a mission, and so after bidding farewell, we continued on. I noticed her looking at me with a strange mixture of pity and amusement on her face. “What?” I said defensively. “She was pretty. You wanted me to take pictures with attractive people, didn’t you?”

“M-hmm,” she just sort of smiled and nodded her head, but didn’t say anything else. She made a left-hand turn and we were in a hallway outside of what looked to be the conservatory. People were gathering by the large glass doors, which had been opened to show a spacious room, bare of furniture except for a Steinway in the far corner.

“Oh, good, they’re running scenes today,” she said in a hushed whisper. “That’s Daniel at the piano; Paolo is singing Tito, Emperor of Rome, he’s very good—when he’s relaxed enough,” she said, pointing to another young man standing in the center of the room. “And Stephen, the tall one in the helmet just outside the door, he’s Publio, captain of the guard, and…oh yes, there she is, that’s Gwennie, she’s our Sesto, and…oh.”

Mum trailed off and giggled, and then I saw why. All of the singers were in various pieces of costume—"Tito" was wearing a toga-like drape over his shoulders, "Publius" had on his tufted helmet, and "Sesto" was wearing a pair of manacles around her wrists, a tunic of some coarse-looking fabric, ankle chains complete with an iron ball, and…fluffy white bunny slippers.

She noticed me looking at her, and very solemnly put her finger to her lips. Then one corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, and for the briefest moment, I saw all the mischief in the universe in her eyes.

I didn’t know it yet, of course, but I was already lost.

A chord crashed from the piano, Publio dragged Sesto through the open doors into the room, where she abruptly halted, then sang a few lines in Italian, and I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. She had one of the most beautiful voices I’d ever heard. Rich, expressive, with a warmth I could almost _feel_ in my fingertips.

After a short trio featuring all three of the singers, Publio exited and there was a stretch of recitative between Sesto and Tito. Mum was right, I realized, as I watched and listened. Paolo, as the emperor Tito, was imperially stern but there was a stiffness to him—and to his singing. There was an effortlessness to Gwen, even playing a once-trusted friend facing execution for Tito’s attempted murder.

And then I noticed an odd thing happening: Whenever Paolo sang, Gwen would tap the toes of her left foot, making the rabbit ears bob comically in time with his rhythm. When it was her turn, she would tap her right foot while she sang, making it appear that the rabbits were conversing as well.

Apparently Paolo noticed it too, and he tried valiantly to ignore it but finally gave up, collapsing into laughter mid-note. Gwen, clearly also no longer in character, giggled along with him. I was delighted to see that when she smiled, her cheeks dimpled adorably. Paolo said something I couldn’t quite hear or understand, but she merely snickered and said, “Sì...ma ho fatto ridere, no?”*

Of _course_ she spoke Italian.

This was followed by a good-natured exchange of insults. Paolo, being a native speaker was more fluent, but Gwen held her own, albeit at a slower pace. Finally, after a last _“_ _vaffanculo_ _!”_ ** from Gwen, the two of them resumed their scene. Paolo’s body seemed much more relaxed, and the tension had disappeared from his voice. Mum nudged me and gave me her “I-told-you-so” face and I nodded, appreciating the change.

Rehearsal eventually broke up, and as it did, Gwen seemed to magically disappear. Mum steered me over to the other performers, and we made polite small talk and I posed for the requisite photos and signed a few autographs. I was disappointed when Mum whispered that she was heading back to the car, but then I saw that Gwen had reappeared—minus her chains and bunny slippers. I broke away from Daniel, the accompanist, as quickly and as smoothly as I could, and made my way to her side.

“Hi, I’m Tom,” I said, taking her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth, and I had to resist the urge to raise it to my lips and pepper it with kisses.

Her answering smile was polite but cool, the dimples she’d displayed earlier barely visible. “Hi, Gwen Devereaux, nice to meet you.”

“That’s quite an instrument you’ve got there,” I said, “and you use it beautifully.”

Oh God, Hiddleston, you _arse_.

Honestly, though, that was the best I could come up with in that moment, because I was too busy staring into the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen—deep green, the color of leaves in the summer, framed with thick dark lashes. Her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was a warm brown, topped with reddish-blonde highlights. Her chin, now that I could see it up close, also sported a dimple. Not deep enough to be an actual cleft, but just the right size for my thumb as I gently tipped her face up to mine…

She paused for a moment—was I that obvious? Was I making her uncomfortable?—then said, “Oh…er…thanks…I have brought honor to my teacher’s studio, then.”

I don’t know why, but it made me laugh.

“No, really,” she said. “I was with him for two years before he let me put it in my bio.”

And just like that, we were off. To this day I don’t remember everything we talked about, because it seemed like we talked about _everything_. Royal Opera. RADA. Teachers. Driving in Britain versus driving in America. Productions we’d been in. Philadelphia cream cheese…all I knew was that the longer we talked, the more genuine, the more dimpled her smiles became. And the more I realized that this was someone I wanted to know more about.

There was a brief moment of awkwardness during the all-important selfie, when I put my arm around her waist. I didn’t intend to—truly—but as I snapped the picture I pulled her in close, flush against my body. She let out a surprised _Oof!_ and turned to look at me. “What—?”

“Sorry! Sorry, just…um…habit,” I said, releasing her abruptly. “Just…usually getting everyone in frame…” I trailed off, realizing the futility (and the complete and utter lameness) of my explanation.

“It’s…okay,” she said. “I just wasn’t…”

“Yes, I’m so sorry—”

And then, the phone.

Gratefully I yanked it from my pocket and read Mum’s text. “Um, it seems Mum is waiting for me in the car.” I hesitated, knowing I was opening the door to (yet another) public fiasco. Shaking it off, I forged ahead. “But…well…look, I’ve really enjoyed talking with you, and, er…wouldyouliketogetsomecoffeelaterthisweekperhaps?”

Oh, yes. Well done, Hiddleston. Very smooth.

The expression on her face didn’t change, but I swear the temperature dropped about twenty degrees in our immediate vicinity. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I was under the impression that you were already seeing someone.”

 _Shit._ What the hell had my mother told her?

“Oh. Well, er…there was…I mean…” I ran my hand through my hair and took a deep breath. “I _was_ dating someone, but it was very casual, nothing exclusive, and we’ve sort of fizzled out, you see…” _Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes…_

She smiled again, a polite, regretful sort of smile, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s better if I say no.” Her hands came up defensively even as I opened my mouth to protest, and she said, “I know, I know, I’m going to kick myself in less than five minutes because you seem like a really great guy—funny, smart—plus, you know, _you_ …but it’s just—look, I’m not trying to be unkind, but you’re a three-ring circus, and that isn’t the attention I’m looking for.”

Inwardly, I groaned. She knew, then. (Of course she knew, I reminded myself. _Everyone_ knew.)

Unaware of my inner turmoil, she looked away, taking in the bustle around us. “This may be a smaller scale than you’ve gotten used to, but I’ve worked hard to get here, and I’m not willing to risk it. Not yet, anyway.” Those lovely green eyes met mine again, and I saw the regret in them. “What can I say? I love my work.”

That stopped me when I would have argued. She wasn’t wrong, not by a long shot. The publicity. The constant barrage from the media. The unexpected blow to my career. The inevitable collapse of the relationship and that last mortifying, humiliating scene in Milan.

Worst of all: The Song. I wondered if she’d heard it, if she realized it was about me. _  
_

No, I had no right to ask Gwen to put herself in the path of that firestorm.

But damn it, I _liked_ her.

I liked her quick wit, I liked that she was willing to make herself look silly to help Paolo be a better singer—others might have simply used the opportunity to make themselves look better. I even liked her _dimples_ , for God’s sake.

While I was gawking at her, trying to formulate an answer, her phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket and grimaced at it. “Oops, I’m late for a coaching,” she explained. “Time to get my Italian shredded and grated.”

Disappointed, I nodded and held out my hand. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Gwen…are you sure I can’t…er…sign something for you?”

Yes, I was desperate.

Gwen merely dimpled at me. “Do I look like FedEx?” she laughed. And then she was gone, down a hallway and through a door and just _gone._

Back at the car, Mum was busily scrolling through her phone. “She turned you down, then,” she said as I plopped myself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut with what may have been just slightly excessive force.

“What?”

She shot me a withering glance. “Thomas. You turned on your charm and she saw right through you and she turned you down when you asked her out.”

“Not exactly.” I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. “Apparently, I’m too famous.”

Mum chuckled. “Well, she _is_ a smart one, our Gwennie. She got Paolo sorted quick enough, didn’t she?” She thought for a moment. “So you’ll just have to do better,” she said, nodding as though she’d come to some sort of conclusion.

“Better? Better than what?” I asked.

She _tsked_ at me. “Better than charming. Better than _famous_.”

So I thought about it all during the ride home. And for the next day and a half.

Finally, it hit me. And I felt like a world-class tit for having missed it, it was so damn obvious. Gwen had said she didn’t want to go out because it was public and she didn’t want that kind of media attention. _But she hadn’t said she didn’t want to spend time with me._

So when looked at from that perspective, it was simple. All I had to do was engineer a way for us to spend some time together where we wouldn’t be seen by the cameras.

Easy, right?

Surprisingly, yes. The answer came later that evening, as I was switching up playlists from my phone. The weather icon showed clear, sunny weather for the next several days—perfect for a walk in the park…or around the park-like grounds of a National Trust site. If Gwen didn’t want to go out for coffee, I would take the coffee to her.

And then it occurred to me: Why stop at coffee? I could…I could surprise her with a picnic lunch. That would give me a chance to spend some time with her out of the ever-watchful eye of the press.

Excited by the prospect of seeing Gwen again, I dialed Mum and explained my idea to her. “I just need to know when she’s going to be around in the next few days—can you check the rehearsal schedule?”

Mum hummed approvingly. “Not bad,” she said. “I’ll email it over to you.”

And so a few days later I was on my way to Aylesbury, picnic gear stowed safely in the boot of the Jag. I had no idea what she liked, so just to be safe, I packed some of everything—roast chicken, roast beef, bread and rolls for sandwiches, condiments, crisps, macaroni salad, chocolate chip cookies, sparkling cider, mineral water.

Of course I felt the first few drops of rain as I pulled into the car park. Sighing, I flipped the switch for the roof and reached for my umbrella.

The rain was a steady downpour by the time I reached the side entrance. Inside, I tried to look inconspicuous with my picnic basket and blanket and umbrella while I searched for the room where Gwen was supposed to be rehearsing. As I reached the intersection of two hallways, I heard her voice in heated conversation from one of the rooms. I sidled closer.

“You’re crazy if you dismiss him, Nigel, and you know it,” she was saying. “We’ve both seen his videos. You’re not going to find a better Tito—not at this level, anyway.”

“Miss Devereaux, I’m aware that you have…erm…taken an interest in Mr. Galliani and his career, and it is entirely to your credit that you have done so. But the fact remains, he is…well, he is not fitting in well with the company. The accompanists and coaches find him… _difficult_ , you see, as do some of the other singers.” I recognized the voice of Nigel Bowman, the associate artistic director of the festival.

“Do you have any idea why you might be finding him difficult?” she retorted. “Do you know what’s been going on with him? What happened when he went into London? Have either you or Mr. McConnell actually _spoken_ to him?” Gwen’s voice, usually so warm, had gone flat.

“Ah, well, no. As you know, conversation with him can be rather trying…the…er…language barrier…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Gwen said, her disgust obvious. “I was under the impression we were an _international_ opera company. But here it is: when he went in for those extra coachings, he had his wallet, his laptop, _and_ his mobile stolen on the Tube. He’s lucky he had his train tickets in another pocket. So he’s been without them, unable to reach anyone at home, and I suspect he already feels isolated here because of the _language barrier_ , as you say. And you wonder why he’s been ‘difficult’.”

“Ah, I am sorry to hear it, Miss Devereaux, but how did _you_ figure this out?”

“Because Google Translate and I went and _asked_ him, of course. And I suspect the situation will remedy itself quite soon. His conversational English skills are going to improve, as are my Italian.” I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice, and it made me wonder: Was I stepping into the middle of a budding romance?

Mum hadn’t mentioned it, but she may not have known. Briefly, I considered turning around and going home, but then I heard her continue: “Also, there may have been a package delivered this morning, replacing his stolen items. _And_ I had him call Antonio last night as soon as I understood what was going on.”

“Antonio?”

“His boyfriend.” A brief silence, then, “How did you  _not_ know that? Well, I guess we’re all fairly new at this.” Nigel began to protest, but she cut him off. “Yes, I’ve read your CV, it’s very impressive. But honestly, you’re kind of crap at dealing with people.”

 _“Miss_ _Devereaux!”_

She ran over him as though he hadn’t even spoken. “Now, I’m sure that neither the Artistic Director nor the board of managers—nor Aylesbury’s town council, for that matter—wants a cloud of negative publicity surrounding its brand-new opera festival, particularly over something as idiotic and, well… _provincial_ as homophobia.” More silence. “Well, Mr. Bowman? _Am I wrong?_ ”

Another silence. Then: “I am aware, Miss Devereaux, that Diana Hiddleston has been a great friend and champion of yours, and her son seems to have taken an interest in you as well—” I felt my ears redden. Had I been so obvious? “But I assure you, at this point in your career—

“Stop.” She cut him off abruptly. “Stop right there. Yes, Diana has been incredibly helpful to me, both in landing this job and getting settled here. And I’ve only met her son once, but he seems like a decent guy. However—” and now her voice became somehow both quieter and yet more intense—“do not make the mistake of thinking that either of them have _any_ influence on my career, such as it is. There is _one_ person in charge of that, Mr. Bowman, and you are looking at her.”

More silence.

“If there’s nothing else, Nigel, I think we’ll leave this discussion right here, between you and me. I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

There was the sound of a door closing, and I stepped forward around the corner, desperately trying to give the impression of someone who has just arrived and has definitely not been eavesdropping on a private conversation.

It must have worked, because Gwen merely glanced at me and nodded. “Oh, hey you.” She noted the basket in my hands. “Um, I don’t think your mom is here today, at least I haven’t seen her.”

“What? Oh, er…no,” I stuttered, trying to keep what I was sure was an insanely cheesy grin off my face at the sight of her. “I…um…well, I thought about what you said last time, and was going to bring you coffee, but then it seemed like a bit of a drive just for coffee, so I thought…maybe we could…um…”

I could literally feel my train of thought derailing as the words fell out of my mouth and landed in an inglorious heap at my feet. So much so that I was reduced to holding out the basket and making a small, inquisitive squeak while giving her what I prayed was a charming smile instead of the lunatic grin of a terrified madman.

My prayers were answered, because after a short pause, during which she grasped what I was so inarticulately trying to communicate, her merely polite smile blossomed into the genuine, dimpled article. “Oh…you brought lunch…all the way out here?” I nodded, not trusting myself to form a coherent sentence. “Wow,” she said, “that’s… _wow_. Thank you.”

I heaved a mental sight of relief; she didn’t seem to be cross that I had, essentially, ambushed her. “Only it’s raining,” I said, belatedly remembering the picnic element of my plans.

“No worries,” she said, “plenty of room in this pile. Come on.” I followed, trying not to sneak glances at her yoga pants–clad behind. On occasion, I even succeeded.

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen has secrets she's not ready to spill.

**Gwen**

_Damn him._

I chewed the inside of my lower lip as I watched his ridiculously long, ridiculously gorgeous legs carry him across Hughenden’s parking lot. _Seriously, damn him right to hell._

When I met Diana Hiddleston after a gala concert toward the end of my stint at the Royal Opera’s apprentice program, I knew, of course, not only who she was, but whose mother she was. But since my days as a giddy fangirl were A) long behind me and B) something that never really existed anyway, I kept my cool and was professional and didn’t mention her handsome, famous son at all.

I never expected to hear from Diana again, but she emailed me a short time later, offering me an opportunity to participate in the inaugural season of an as-yet-unannounced brand-new opera festival. Of course I had to audition and interview several times, but I suspected Diana had a lot to do with me not only getting the job but being cast in one of the lead roles in the first production.

Her support didn’t stop there, either. After I’d told her the news (which I’m sure she knew long before I did), she was kind enough to help me find a place to stay—and negotiated a much better rate for it than I would have. Once I arrived and started working, she would often sit and chat with me as time allowed, telling me about productions she’d worked on, bits of gossip…

…And Tom.

As much as I might have wanted to, I never asked about him, I just allowed her steer the conversation toward him. Even when she merely wanted to vent about rumors that were swirling around the internet, about him and an unnamed starlet/supermodel. Following so closely on the heels of his last disastrous—and extremely public—breakup, Diana had a strong suspicion that the girl’s attachment to Tom was based mostly on how much of a boost Tom’s name could give her career. Diana mentioned her several times, usually referring to her as the Ice Queen.

All things considered, I never expected to meet her movie-star son. But really, I shouldn’t have been surprised when she announced that she was bringing him for a visit to kick up some buzz about the festival.

She is, in fact, shameless.

So, like everybody else, I made sure to dress in slightly nicer clothes than I usually wear to rehearse (hey, singing is hard work; I _sweat_ when I sing) and applied a bit of foundation and blush and mascara. After due consideration, I packed extra blotting sheets—it was a given that pictures would be taken, and it wouldn’t do to show up on the internet looking like a sweaty, shiny disco ball.

As it turned out, wardrobe and props had bits and pieces ready for us to try out, so I didn’t have to worry about getting my nicer clothes all gross and sweaty. The wrist manacles were a nice touch, but the ankle chains and ball were a bit much—I was more of a duckling than a swan, and I knew sooner or later, I would end up taking down _someone_ on that stage. Most likely, me.

I have to admit, though, they went well with the bunny slippers.

I was glad I’d thought of the slippers, especially for today. Paolo was a gifted singer, but he tensed up at the drop of a hat, leaving his sound tight and forced. Fortunately, I knew that making him laugh was one of the best antidotes for _that_ particular predicament. (Harold, my teacher Stateside, had used that tactic on me from day one.) And making Paolo laugh was easy—all it usually took was my attempts at conversational Italian.

(Most college language courses, I’d discovered, were so busy teaching vocabulary and verb tenses and grammar that they didn’t teach you to actually speak the language, out loud, to another human being. So I had entire _semesters_ of Italian, French, German—hell, even Spanish—under my belt, which meant that I could read and translate beautifully but was frequently awkward as fuck when I was trying to communicate my thoughts to another person.)

And I knew that today, of all days, was going to be somewhat nerve-wracking. Yes, we were opera singers and loved showing off, but it was also our first time running a scene off-book, with rudimentary blocking—and now there was an internationally famous movie star gadding about and watching every single thing we did.

In truth, the bunny slippers were almost as much for me as they were for Paolo.

Eh, whatever. They worked, we got through the scene a couple of times, and a good time was had by all. As soon as Dan, the accompanist, called it, I tore back to the closet that was currently serving as a dressing room, got out of my inevitably sweaty togs, freshened up everything that could be freshened, and raced back to the rehearsal room, hoping that Diana & Co. hadn’t left yet.

(What? Of course I wanted to meet him, who wouldn’t? Even if he was dating someone else.)

I was in luck—Tom was off to one side, deep in conversation with Dan. Faintly I heard the word “Shakespeare” and inwardly rolled my eyes. I knew enough about the man to know that his favorite topic was likely to keep him occupied for quite some time. And Dan, bless his heart, was going to use that to milk every moment he could with Mr. Hiddleston.

I had barely stepped into the hallway, however, when I saw him striding toward me, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Tom,” he said, giving me a friendly smile.

I took his hand. “Hi, Gwen Devereaux, nice to meet you."

“That’s quite an instrument you’ve got there,” he said, “and you use it beautifully.” I found myself blushing slightly. My body was my instrument, as far as I was concerned, and although I knew he couldn’t possibly mean it in _that_ way, the compliment still brought a flush of warmth—inside _and_ out.

“Oh…er…thanks,” I said. “I have brought honor to my teacher’s studio, then.”

Tom stared for a moment, then laughed. Loudly.

And just like that, we were off. No awkwardness, no shyness, just two people enjoying a conversation far more than they had expected to. I talked about Harold, and how much I missed him. He told me about his days at RADA and some of the teachers who had had an influence on him. We took the requisite selfie (Diana would have our heads if we didn’t). We chatted about the weather. About the differences between driving in America and driving in the UK.

And then his phone _pinged_.

He grimaced as he looked at it briefly. “Um, it seems Mum is waiting for me in the car, but…well…look, I’ve really enjoyed talking with you, and, er…would you like to get some coffee later this week perhaps?” He spoke rapidly, as though he were afraid the words wouldn’t come out so he had to push them all out in one go.

Er. _What?  
_

What about the Evil Ice Queen that Diana had mentioned so often—the one she felt sure was dating Tom just to advance her career? Maybe that’s how it was done in Hollywood, but I wasn’t part of that world and I had no intention of playing its games. “I’m sorry,” I said, “But I was under the impression that you were already seeing someone.”

He looked shocked for a moment, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Oh. Well, er…there was…I mean…” He stumbled around his words a bit, then took a breath and restarted. “I was sort of dating someone, but it was very casual, nothing exclusive, and we’ve sort of fizzled out, you see…”

_So you figured out the truth and ran in the opposite direction, I thought. Or maybe there is no opposite direction and it’s all just one giant game…_

Either way, I turned him down. My heart kicked and screamed all the way, but I had 85 million reasons—give or take a few—to avoid that level of public scrutiny.

A couple of days passed, and while I didn’t have the time or energy to completely obsess over my decision, I did engage in some serious second-guessing. _You could have done it, and to hell with the consequences. You could have figured out another way. You turned down a coffee date with Tom fucking Hiddleston—you must be out of your mind._

The universe, however, had other things for me to worry about. The associate artistic director, Nigel Bowman, had decided that Paolo was less than an asset to the company, and was looking to have him replaced. Paolo was not perfect, of course, but none of us were, not by a long shot. But he was dealing with his own set of issues, and I wasn’t about to see him summarily dismissed when none of the top brass had even tried to find out what was going on.

So I had a fairly uncomfortable conversation with Nigel late one morning, after rehearsal. I didn’t even have to play my super-secret ace in the hole, fortunately—just the mention of negative publicity for the festival was enough to make Nigel back off. He’d tried to save face by calling my own career into question, but I shot him down like a clay pigeon.

As I left the room, I felt myself working up into full war goddess mode, ready to disassemble the next fool who got in my way… And then Tom stepped around the corner, a picnic basket and blanket in his arms. I thought he’d come to see his mom, but he’d brought lunch. For us.

Props for persistence, I reluctantly admitted to myself. And for thinking outside the box.

Once we’d found some unoccupied space, Tom spread out the blanket and began emptying the basket. I thought perhaps he’d brought a couple of sandwiches and some potato chips, but as I watched in disbelief, he set out roast beef and chicken, rolls, breads, an entire array of condiments—including several varieties of mustard—macaroni salad, pasta salad, potato salad, baked beans, potato chips (wavy and kettle cooked), chocolate chip cookies, elderflower cordial, sparkling cider, and mineral water—all served on china plates, with crystal goblets, silver cutlery, and linen napkins.

“I—what is…?” I stuttered as dish after dish appeared. Additional props for thoroughness.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said, “so I brought some of everything…if you don’t like it, I can go get something else…”

“Tom,” I laughed, holding up a hand. “This is amazing—did you _make_ all of this?”

“Well, no, I only made the baked beans and the macaroni salad and the cookies—I’m afraid I just bought everything else.”

“Jeez, what a slacker you are,” I said, deadpan. At his stricken look, however, I quickly backtracked. “No, no, no! Not—omigod, _sarcasm_ , Hiddleston! This—” I gestured to the banquet spread out on the blanket, “This is the opposite of slacking, _as I’m sure you are well aware_ , so cease and desist with the puppy-dog eyes. I’m hungry.”

A short time later, we had put a respectable dent in the mountain of food, and I was struck again at how easy conversation was between us. I told him a highly abbreviated version of my life story, ending with the two years I’d spent in London as part of the Parker program. “It’s funny,” I said, “All this time and I still haven’t gone back to Stonehenge.” _Oops. Maybe he wouldn’t pick up on that “back”…_

No such luck. “Oh, have you been there before?”

 _Son of a…_ “Well, once. It must have been…oh, 2003, I think. I was on a choir trip, they gave us forty-five minutes to get off the bus, buy the tickets, get around the thing and listen to all the information, get through the gift shop, and get back on the bus.” I snorted at the memory. “Most unsatisfying.”

“Wow,” he murmured. I thought he was agreeing that it had been a terrible way to experience an iconic monument, but then he said, “You must have been just a little baby singer?”

 _Shit._ My age was one of those areas I did not want to approach with him, so I merely nodded and said, “Something like that, yes.” Then, because I was desperate to change the subject—and because it _was_ something I’d been having a hard time with long before I’d been accepted into the apprentice program: “So…I know this is a weird thing to bring up, out of nowhere, but…well, I’ve always had difficulty, when I’m singing pants roles, to walk—to move—like a guy. I’m all boobs and hips and ass, and, well—you know.”

Tom’s eyes flickered over me briefly as he murmured, “I do indeed.”

 _Gah._ Just couldn’t keep my foot out of my mouth, could I? Swallowing against the dryness in my mouth (was it suddenly much warmer in here?), I stammered, “Um…would you mind…could you show me how you do that? You know, that badass alpha-male…sort of… _strut_ …thing?

If my face had gotten any hotter, I swear it would have melted off my skull. He merely grinned and hopped to his feet. “My pleasure,” he said.

What followed was fifteen minutes of the sweetest torture I had ever experienced. He started out by walking back and forth in front of me several times, pointing out where the differences in our anatomies led to differences in gait and stride.

(I tried to focus. I really did. But he was…him, and the striding back and forth was…look, _you_ sit and watch that and see how well _you_ focus.)

So when he was suddenly standing next to me and holding out his hand, I jumped. “I…what?”

“Your turn,” he said.

 _This is your own fault,_ I told myself as I took his hand. He pulled me to my feet (effortlessly, I might add), but let go as soon as I was up. “Go ahead,” he said. “You try it.”

I felt like I was waddling like a duck, but Tom seemed somewhat satisfied. “That’s actually not bad,” he complimented me, “but you probably want to open your legs wider.”

How he said that with absolutely no embarrassment is beyond me. God knows I was beet red.

“Here,” he said, coming up to stand close to me. “May I?” At my nod, he rested his fingertips on the inside of my right thigh, just above the knee and pressed gently outward, until my feet were even further apart. “Now try it,” he murmured, sliding his hand to the outside and up to my hip. “I’ll hold on to you.”

Having him that close, with his hands on me (omigod, the _smell_ of him!) made it even more difficult to focus on the task at hand. My inner work-horse, however, knew that being taught how to walk like a badass by someone like Tom Hiddleston was too good an opportunity to waste—no matter how good he smelled.

And he was incredibly helpful in breaking down the individual elements of each stride. As we walked around the room like some bizarrely truncated conga line, he would offer suggestions—“Longer stride, darling” or “A bit less with your hips, more with your arms and shoulders”—and I soon found myself feeling more Jonathan Pine and less Gwendolyn Devereaux.

I barely noticed when he let go of me, and confidently swaggered up and down the length of the room, halting only when one of the crew stuck his head in the door with an “Oi, miss! Call in ten!”

Well, damn.

I helped Tom stash the remnants of lunch back in the basket, and quickly walked him back through the hallways. “Thank you so much,” I said as we approached the door. “This was really very sweet of you. The lunch— _and_ the lesson in badassery.”

He smiled as he took my hand. “Do I dare hope that means we can do this again?” I could almost feel the earnestness radiating through his skin into mine. The rational part of me _knew_ that he was an actor, that it was his job to convince an audience of his sincerity, and that the wisest course of action would be to stop this trainwreck before it even started.

In that moment, however—flattered that he’d made time for me, well-fed, and more than a bit aroused by the continued proximity of his body—the refusal that should have come out of my mouth sounded suspiciously like, “I’d love to…my turn to cook, though.”

What. The. Actual. _How the fuck did he **do** that?_

So there I was, silently cursing him as I watched him practically bounce across the parking lot, having secured A) my cell number and B) another lunch date for the next week. Shaking my head, I turned back into the manor, doing my best to refocus my attention on rehearsals, where it belonged.

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen makes an admission.

**Tom**

I was barely out of the car park when I put her cell number to use.

_Hi! I know I just left, and you’re probably already in rehearsal, but I just didn’t want you to forget about me._ _:-) :-) :-)_ _–T_

Not surprisingly, it wasn’t until I was almost back in the city that I got an answer, in what I was to learn was typical Gwen style.

_I have no idea who this is. :_ _-D_

Ha. Ha. Ha.

_Very funny, Dory. I know we agreed on Monday, but any chance you’d like to get together sooner? Say, perhaps, this weekend? –T  
_

_Sorry, rehearsal most of Saturday, concert Sunday afternoon. Also, must wash my hair._ _:-O_

A concert, eh? _Well, toi toi toi,* then. You’ll be great!_ _–T_

As soon as I hit send, I grabbed my laptop and started searching upcoming concerts within a 25-mile radius of London. To my surprise, I found a listing for that Sunday at Southwark Cathedral in the city. I didn’t recognize any of the other soloists, but Gwen’s name popped right out at me.

I wanted to go see her rehearse—I really did—but I also wanted to be mindful of her privacy, so I disciplined myself and resolved to wait. With a bit of luck I could slip in unrecognized, enjoy the concert, and be gone with no one the wiser.

Not wanting to call attention to myself, I arrived at the cathedral and slid into a pew just as the orchestra finished tuning. Quickly perusing the program, I was pleased to see that Gwen was the only soloist for the first piece, _Alt-Rhapsodie (Op. 53)_ , by Johannes Brahms.

And then the applause started as Gwen and the conductor appeared. I barely recognized the stunning creature gliding onto the stage in a deep emerald tea-length dress and matching low-heeled pumps. Her hair, which I’d only seen in a messy bun or ponytail, was pulled into a sleek chignon at the back of her neck, and even from a distance I could tell she was wearing a bit more makeup.

Her physical beauty, however, was no match for the sound of her voice. The work utilized more of her range than the Mozart, and I realized I was hearing someone who had complete command of her instrument. Her lower register was thrillingly dark, her upper register absolutely sparkled, but all of it held that warm richness that I remembered.

Although I could have listened to her all day, the piece ended all too soon, to wildly enthusiastic applause. Gwen took her bows and exited, and was replaced by a soprano and a bass, who sang a cantata by Johann Sebastian Bach. I didn’t find it nearly as interesting as listening to Gwen, but the piece didn’t last long, and Gwen soon reappeared for another Bach cantata, along with a full choir and roster of soloists.

I was feeling pretty sure of my anonymity in my faded Yankees cap and least-fashionable pair of specs, but when I noticed Gwen staring in my direction during the opening chorus, I quickly pulled the cap lower over my face and scrutinized my program.

I tried. Truly, I did. But when she started singing her aria, I couldn’t keep my head down; I kept finding myself gazing at her, trying to reconcile her effortlessly relaxed posture with the _sound_ that was coming out of her. As the aria came to an end, I peeked up again and was dismayed to see her staring directly at me. Her eyebrow quirked ever so slightly before she turned and stepped back to her seat. Even as she lowered herself into her chair, her eyes never left mine.

Willing myself into invisibility for the closing chorale, I tried not to move _(if I don’t move, maybe she can’t see me!)_ until the audience jumped to its feet for a standing ovation. I watched as Gwen and her colleagues took their bows and exited, then beat a hasty retreat out of the sanctuary.

My helmet was barely strapped to my head when my phone vibrated. Sighing, I fished it out of my pocket. Sure enough, it was a text from Gwen.

I was, very possibly, in a great deal of trouble.

_Enjoy the concert?_ _–G_

_Gwen! Done already? How did it go? –T  
_

_Don’t bullshit me, pretty boy. Pink button down, khaki shorts, baseball hat. Pink’s not really your color, BTW. –G_

_Do you really think I’m pretty? –T_

(Hey, it worked for Black Widow.)

_Hiddleston. –G_

_Sorry, darling. You were magnificent, though. –T_

I really wanted to add _Not to mention you are absolutely gorgeous and please may I come back there and kiss you?_ but I was pretty sure that particular sentence would not help my cause, so I kept my fingers off the keys.

_Not fair. How am I supposed to properly chastise you if you’re going to be all complimentary and whatnot? –G_

Oof. All sorts of ideas about proper chastisement popped into my grubby English schoolboy head. Taking a deep breath, I tried to squash those ideas into the back of my head before they became painfully obvious to the innocent passersby around me.

_In any case, thank you for coming. And for being inconspicuous. –G  
_

_I live but to serve. –T_

_Hahaha seriously doubt that. Gotta go, see you tomorrow! –G_

**Gwen**

It was so sweet of Tom to take the time to find out where and when that concert was. And I truly did appreciate that he made the effort to keep it low-key instead of going as Official Tom Hiddleston™. But really, he could have just asked me.

 

**Tom**

I rode home with a smile on my face (and an increasingly uncomfortable bulge in my shorts). Not only was I _not_ in trouble, she’d remembered our lunch date!

 

**Gwen**

That, then, was the pattern for the next week or so: lunch at Hughenden, followed by increasingly outrageous attempts by Tom to get me to go on what he called “a real date”. I steadfastly refused, although to be honest, the more time I spent in his company, the more difficult it became to turn him down. He was smart, not to mention well-read and well-traveled, which meant he never failed to make me think, constantly challenging assumptions I’d carried with me my entire life.

He was also relentlessly British, which meant he never failed to make me laugh, whether at his bone-deep, unalterable _politeness_ or the wide streak of sheer goofiness that often reared its head. Either way, I began to miss him more and more when he wasn’t around.

Also increasingly difficult was ignoring his attempts at physical intimacy. I tried (with varying success) to keep things minimally affectionate, but Tom was, well, rather tactile, and I quickly learned that I couldn’t necessarily trust my body not to respond whenever he got his hands on me.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like he was constantly trying to grope me; on the contrary, he was the consummate gentleman. But he had a way of unconsciously reaching out and touching—my hand, my shoulder, my arm—just a small, deft stroke of those long, elegant fingers to make a point he felt was particularly important, or to get my attention. And each touch ignited its own tiny wildfire under my skin, so that by the time I was walking him to the parking lot, I was a miserably tingling mess.

His hugs were the worst.

I came to simultaneously dread and crave those first and last few moments, when he would sweep me up and wrap his arms around me, cradling me as though I were the most cherished thing in his universe, before reluctantly releasing me with a gentle kiss to the top of my head.

The first time he rubbed those big, warm hands up and down my back I almost moaned out loud and found myself trying to burrow closer. I pushed myself away before he could feel the frantic pounding of my heart against his ribcage, but I saw the tiny smile on his lips.

He _knew_.

He fucking well _knew_ what he was doing to me, and he did it anyway. I didn’t know if I wanted to slap him or kiss him.

So there I was late one morning, anxiously awaiting his arrival while at the same time dreading the intricate dance I’d have to do to keep him at a safe distance. (“ _There may not be a minimum safe distance!”_ Thank you, Maria Hill.) More and more I’d been realizing that I didn’t want to have to do that dance, that I wanted to let him get closer, to share all the things I’d been hiding from him.

Still…he was _him_ , with all of his history, and I was me, and I was afraid to trust that this was more than just another fling, that when the festival was over and all the publicity had been wrung out of it he wouldn’t disappear, leaving me heartbroken and humiliated and alone.

I’d managed to push those thoughts aside during morning rehearsal, but as I left and headed toward the kitchens to retrieve our lunch for the day (pesto-shrimp pasta salad, deviled eggs, curried chicken, garlic-stuffed olives and marinated mozzarella balls, cream cheese brownies), I saw his lanky figure down the hallway, conversing with one of the girls from the office—Melanie, if I remembered correctly.

Tall, slim, effortlessly pretty Melanie was all smiles and giggles, and Tom seemed to be eating it up, laughing along with her. I felt a hot flood of disappointment and shame as she took his hand and put something in it—most likely her name and number, I thought almost clinically.

Desperate to _not_ be there, in that place, seeing every one of my fears about Tom realized, I turned and fled back down the hallway before either of them could see me. I found a makeshift practice room and quietly shut the door behind me. Sitting down at the piano, I began to practice scales—both hands, two octaves—while my thoughts churned in circles of self-recrimination:

_You’ve only had lunch a few times. And you made him drive all the way out here for it._

_You’ve been keeping him at arm’s length, of course he’s going to find someone who’s more accommodating._

_You have no right to be jealous, he’s not yours._

_If you like it then you should have put a ring on it._

I laughed out loud at that last one, even as the tears spilled down my cheeks. Wiping my eyes, I picked up where I’d left off, somewhere around G-sharp major.

I’d made it to B major when there was a knock and Tom’s head poked through the door. “Darling, there you are. Are you ready for lunch?” I didn’t take my eyes off the keys, but out the corner of my eye I saw him look me up and down. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Yes, I saw.” I tried to keep my voice noncommittal and my fingers steady. “Thirsty, too, apparently.”

“What do you…” he trailed off as he realized what I’d said. “I’m sorry, darling, I guess I should—”

“Stop,” I said, cutting him off midstream. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What, don’t call you darling?” he asked, confusion in his voice. “But you never—”

I still hadn’t looked at him, focusing on the keyboard and the patterns of white and black keys beneath my fingers, but now I slammed the lid down abruptly and stood. “I am _not_ ,” I said between clenched teeth, “your darling. It means something somewhat different to American, _as I’m sure you’re well aware,_ so I would prefer you…just didn’t.”

To his credit, he didn’t collapse into a pile of abject apology. Nor did he take the bait and start arguing with me. Instead, he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you done?” he said softly.

_No point in dragging this out longer than necessary._ “Yes, I suppose I am,” I said, expecting him to head back out the door to his new, more enthusiastic playmate.

Imagine my surprise when Tom crossed the room in two strides, leaving me caught between him and the piano, my neck craned uncomfortably backward as I stared up into his eyes, which had gone from their usual sunny blue-gray to something much deeper and stormier.

He didn’t touch me, other than to take my hand and place something in it—when I looked down, I saw that it was indeed Melanie’s business card, with her cell number scrawled on the back. I tried to give it back to him, but he refused to take it. “No,” he said. “I don’t need it. I don’t _want_ it.” He chuckled ruefully. “I guess I was a bit flirty with her, that first day I came to visit. But I didn’t know I was going to meet the perfect lunch partner an hour later.”

My mouth flapped a few times, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to _do_ , other than stare at the floor. “Tom, I…”

When he tipped my chin up again, he had an ear-to-ear, genuine Cheshire cat grin on his face. “So can we _please_ eat now? I am, in fact, ravenous.”

That look, however, was far too self-satisfied for my taste. “And just why do you look so pleased with yourself, Hiddleston?” I said.

His eyes caressed my lips, and I thought for sure he was going to kiss me ( _oh please, please, please_ ), but he merely gave me a light peck on the tip of my nose, which made me giggle. “Because now I know,” he said.

“Know what?” I retorted. “You know why the sky is blue? You know why one plus one equals two?”

“No, Dr. Seuss,” he said, twining his fingers with mine as he led me in search of the almighty picnic basket. “Because now I know that you like me.”

A short time later, we were seated underneath a large oak tree, the remains of our feast scattered around us. All through lunch, Tom had kept himself seated closer to me than he had during our previous lunches, and when I propped myself up against the trunk of the tree he cheekily plopped his head into my lap, smirking at me as though daring me to move him.

 

**Tom**

Can I just say, Gwen makes the best damn deviled eggs I’ve ever tasted.

 

**Gwen**

I shrugged, returning his grin. “Fair enough, but you’re not going to just lay there like a lump,” I said as I handed him my Kindle. “The least you can do is entertain me.”

“As you wish,” he said, launching into a chapter from _The Night Circus_ , one of my favorite novels. Before long, his voice lulled me into a sense of deep relaxation. I was vaguely aware that I had begun stroking his forehead, right between his eyebrows, but doing so felt so comfortable, so _right_ , that the realization didn’t faze me at all.

“Gwen… _Gwen._ ”

“Mmph…I’m not asleep."

“Of course you’re not, darling.”

“Thomas. You’re not reading anymore.”

“No, I wanted to ask you something.”

“You can’t have my deviled egg recipe.”

He huffed for a moment. Then: “You...you _do_ like me, don’t you, Gwen?”

“Of course I like you, Tom. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“No,” he said patiently. “I mean you _like_ me, right?”

I sighed, now back to full awareness, and knowing the implication of the question he was asking me. “Yes, Tom. I _like_ you. Like that.” After our conversation in the practice room, there really wasn’t much point in trying to deny it.

He jumped to his knees next to me and took my hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the palm. “Then go on a date with me,” he said. “I know how to keep the paparazzi away, I promise. Please?”

He looked so much like an eager puppy that I laughed. “You swear that we’re not going to get ambushed while I’m stuffing a big chunk of chocolate cake into my face?”

“Pinky swear,” he said, suiting deeds to words.

He had, apparently, worked everything out, although he wouldn’t give me any details when pressed. “Just plan on medium swanky,” he said when I protested at being left in the dark.

When I had walked him to the parking lot and been wrapped up in one of his horribly glorious hugs, he held on to me and gently brushed his lips across my forehead. “I _am_ going to kiss you properly, one of these days,” he said. “I just thought, maybe here wasn’t…er…the best place…”

He was right, I thought as I nodded. Although we were relatively safe from the prying eyes of the press, we were still surrounded by people—tourists and my festival co-workers—and we couldn’t be sure one of them wouldn’t snap an inopportune picture. My heart (and other things) warmed, however, at the thought that Tom _did_ actually want to kiss me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Toi toi toi: A common way to wish a singer good luck before a performance, similar to “break a leg”

**Author's Note:**

> *Translation: Yes, but I made you laugh, didn’t I?
> 
> **Yeah, you know what it means.


End file.
